


Pater Familias

by Wrathernice



Series: Held In Trust [1]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen, Prequel time!, The story of a friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathernice/pseuds/Wrathernice
Summary: Artie has worked in the Warehouse long enough to know that the initials in Bronze Sector also stand for Bull Shit. As in, anyone who has been in there speaks nothing but. And then he meets Greer Thomson, and slowly, he learns that sometimes, the Regents really screw up.Note: I set these stories chronologically, even though I wroteHeld In Trustbefore this. That story will make total sense even without this one! This is but a lowly prequel.
Series: Held In Trust [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554469
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

“Artie, this is Greer Thomson,” Mrs. Frederic says, gesturing to the woman standing beside her. The woman is maybe twenty-something, her youthful features obscured somewhat by the goggles she wears. She's no taller than Artie is, maybe even shorter, and her dark brown hair is pulled back into a neat bun.

Artie gives Mrs. Frederic a skeptical look. “She's from the Bronze Sector. That's what the goggles mean, right?” He eyes Greer suspiciously.

“Yes,” admits the Caretaker, “but you need help here.”

“I'm _fine,”_ Artie says automatically. “I am more than prepared. I've been here long enough to--” he waves a hand toward the door that opens onto the balcony-- “deal with what the Warehouse can throw.”

“Artie,” chides Mrs. Frederic, “it has been you alone for several months now, and though I have every confidence in your abilities, things are more unsettled than I would like them to be. Maintenance has been neglected.” She holds up a forestalling hand at his opened mouth. “Through no fault of your own. There have been many more artifacts appearing than we should be reasonably able to expect. So, that is where Ms. Thomson here comes in.”

Artie has been twisting his lips as he listens, and now he glances to the woman, who has been silent this entire time. “What can a convict help me do?” He sees a flash of something cross Greer's face, but it is mastered quickly, disappearing into the neutral expression she had had before.

Mrs. Frederic gives him an impatient look. “Sit down, and I will explain.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Mrs. Frederic has gone, and Artie is left facing Greer, sitting in the chair opposite him. He has been assured that she won't-- and can't-- hurt him, though how Mrs. Frederic is sure of this he has no idea. Pulling staff from the Bronze Sector... Really. He's been handling things, he has. He's more than educated enough to discover artifacts and bring them back. He's learned enough to do inventory and keep himself safe in the maze of shelves. The nightmares have even stopped. Mostly. He's _fine._ But Mrs. Frederic had pretended not to hear his “no”s, and now he has an unknown in the Warehouse. _His_ Warehouse.

Greer hadn't spoken at all during the briefing, keeping her own counsel and adding a nod or a shake of the head where necessary. Now she sits just as silent, and Artie has the sense she's waiting for him to pass judgment. “So,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “You're the backup.” She gives a shrug, but says nothing. “Mrs. Frederic said that you have _experience_ calming the Warehouse down from its _tantrums?”_ This is said quite skeptically.

That gets a twitch of the lips; a smile, maybe? She nods again. Irritated, Artie says, scowling, “You know if we're going to work together you're going to have to actually talk. Do you even talk?”

“I talk,” she says, and he imagines that he sees her lower eyelids twitch a little.

“Well that's a relief,” he says sarcastically. “My sign language is rusty.” It's not imagination this time; her lower lids rise a moment, a tiny glare peeking through before she clears her face again. “So I can just release you out there? And you'll do your thing? Because I do not have time to teach you.”

“I won' need teaching,” she replies crisply, some accent coloring her speech.

“Good. Go.” He waves a hand.

She doesn't move. “Ye're no going to tell me what's been occurring?”

Artie lifts his eyebrows; with the Rs rolling off her tongue, that can only be a Scottish accent. Interesting. “I was under the _impression_ that you didn't need me to.”

Greer almost-- _almost_ \-- rolls her eyes. “Would ye go huntin' an artifact without knowing the lay of the land ye're headin' to?”

“Ah,” Artie says, caught out by logic. “Well, no, I guess not. Fine.” He massages his hairline and sighs deeply. With a last scowl in her direction, he begins, “Here's what we've been dealing with...”

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Artie doesn't like the unexpected. There is a reason he has read and read his entire life, a reason that he has traveled and interviewed and researched. He likes to be prepared. He had been prepared to be suspicious of Greer Thomson since the moment since she had appeared trailing Mrs. Frederic, and he had even managed to pull it off. At first. But it's been almost a month, and he's struggling. The Warehouse is running pretty well in his absences; the pileup of artifacts in the office is cleared, the computers are showing fewer artifact disturbances than ever, and the static has calmed significantly. He has to keep reminding himself that Greer had been put in the Bronze Sector for a reason.

The first time he loses his temper at her, though-- she is _arguing_ with him about artifact placement. Doesn't she know who he is, how much he knows?-- the suspicion takes a turn to worry, because she flinches back from him in a way that tells him that she is used to people raising a hand to her. He can see it in the hunched shoulders, body made even smaller, and the eyes turned submissively downwards, and the look in her eyes: the look of someone retreating into themselves. “I'm sorry,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry, okay? I'm not used to-- this is not my--” He sighs. “Mrs. Frederic is the only one I'm used to dealing with, lately.” He huffs a breath out. “It's been months since I had anyone here.”

The Scotswoman is quiet a long moment, and Artie watches as she slowly straightens, armor fitting back into place piece by piece. “Mrs. Frederic said there had been some... casualties,” she says carefully, still not quite looking him in the eye, but she sees his face as the grief clouds it.

“Yeah.” His tone clearly states that he does not want this topic to go any farther, and luckily for him, Greer seems to be able to read that.

“Look,” Greer says, hands clasped nervously in front of her stomach. “It's one thing to be told what I can do. And I know,” she says quickly, “that ye have little trouble believing what I'm capable of, given what ye see here every day. But...” She shifts, eyes flicking to his and away again. “I think if I show ye, in person, ye might have a chance at understanding better why I think that letter opener belongs elsewhere. And why Mrs. Frederic trusts me.”

He gives her a long look, face unreadable. He presses his lips together after a while, and says, “They don't put just anyone in the Bronze Sector.”

The look he receives in return is so bleak and world-weary that he regrets bringing it up, and he doesn't press her when she doesn't answer. And as she walks with him to the area he had suggested, he finds that he is having trouble being suspicious of her, despite his attempts to keep his guard up. She doesn't give any sign of being a dictator-in-training or a psychopath; she reads instead like a person who knows pain as intimately as she knows her own name. And, well, he knows something about that.

Artie's doubts are hit again as Greer demonstrates what happens when she brings the letter opener into the aisle he'd chosen. There are several arcs of intense static between it and something across the way, and as she dunks it into the canister she's been carrying, he has to admit that she is right.

“How did you know?” he asks, scratching his temple with a finger. “That the--” he crosses to the other item, a beautiful gilded fountain pen set. “That Bronte's writing materials would try to--” It hits him a moment later. “Ohh. She was desperate for connection, it shows in all her writing--”

“And Hemingway was said to have thirty years of unrequited love for Marlene Dietrich,” Greer finishes, handing it to him with a gloved hand. “That letter opener was the one he used to open her letters.”

“So the artifacts.. they're simpatico. They want to meet each other.”

“Aye, and I dinna think that would be a good combination.”

“Well,” Artie says, impressed despite himself. “I guess we'll put this elsewhere.” He tucks the bag holding it into his pocket, then looks at Greer curiously. “How did you know that this--” he gestures to the pen set-- “was here?”

Greer shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I've been through the stacks a time or twelve. I've placed a great many artifacts in my tenure here. Including the pen.”

“And you remembered exactly where it was?”

The corner of Greer's mouth twists wryly. “There's no books in bronze. Ye tend to review everything ye know in an effort to entertain.”

Artie doesn't know what to do with the sympathy that wells in him, so he nitpicks.”You said that the letter opener _was_ the one Hemingway used, not that it _probably_ was. How on earth could you know that?”

She gives him a sad almost-smile. “The feel of it.. it's a conduit for hope and melancholy and despair all in one. It's always reaching for someone to connect with. It misses him, and the letters. So when it came near to the pen, it found a kindred spirit.”

Artie has seen and heard stranger things in his time here that ended up being true. “And you could tell that all from... what? Holding it?”

“I knew it as soon as you carried it in the room. It's very strong, for an artifact.”

“Even through the neutralizer bag,” he murmurs. “Do they all... read to you, that way?”

“Nay,” Greer says. “Some of these things are either not artifacts, or so inactive that they dinna register.”

“Fascinating,” Artie says, eyes thoughtful. He gestures for them to walk to the section Greer had originally suggested, and he begins to quiz her on items, his analytic mind trying to get to the bottom of her abilities. He asks her to close her eyes, but it doesn't make any difference; she often can tell what type of object an artifact is-- “The edges of things vibrate, and if I concentrate, I can fit the vibrations into a picture”-- and sometimes guess at its properties. That is the day he starts to trust Greer Thomson.

\- - - - - - - - - - - 

Greer ends up staying with him for three months. She is diligent; she even works weekends, just like Artie does. When she's not working, she stays in her little room above the Neutralizer Processing Center. About the sixth time he delivers groceries to her, on a Saturday morning, he says, “Come for breakfast in the mornings.”

He registers the shock on her face before it is tucked away. “Ye dinna have to do that,” she says in reply.

He shrugs. “I have more of a kitchen than you do. You can't be eating enough.” He looks pointedly at the single hot plate, her only cooking appliance besides an ancient percolator.

“Alright,” she says, and he exits, and she's left staring at his back with a kind of confusion.

They begin sharing breakfast every morning, though Artie is grumpier than usual during. Greer gets the impression that he has a set morning ritual, and she is intruding, but the first time she doesn't come, he gives her such a look that she doesn't miss again. They pass the meals in mostly-silent companionship-- until Artie has had enough coffee, anyway.

Despite their individual hangups, they are becoming (tentative) friends. Greer doesn't talk much, but she also doesn't talk _too_ much, a trait that Artie hates. She actually understands his jokes-- though she never laughs, only quirks a corner of her mouth-- and she listens to his lectures, and sometimes she even contributes things he hadn't known before.

It's more of a blow than Artie wants to admit when Mrs. Frederic appears again, to take Greer back to the Bronze Sector. He can't help but see the flash of dread that crosses Greer's features when she is told. She is generally opaque, but he has learned to read her a little, and as she leaves the office trailing the Caretaker, he wonders in the back of his mind if he will be able to find an excuse to bring her out of the bronze again soon. He's beginning to think there's a chance that Greer doesn't belong there.


	2. Chapter 2

There are no excuses, not until the worst kind happens. The next time Greer is brought from the bronze, MacPherson has turned, come and gone before she could meet him, and the entire Warehouse must be searched for treachery. She has a small smile for Artie, this time, but he is unable to smile back. She knows what has happened; Mrs. Frederic had filled her in as soon as she'd been able to walk. She doesn't bring it up with Artie at all. She can see that he is wounded. She understands.

They work without much conversation, at first, rarely in the same room except for breakfast and when they both need a computer and share the office. Artie has music playing constantly in the background. The concertos and symphonies calm him, but on Greer, they seem to have the opposite effect: the first time she hears Tchaikovsky's “Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom” Artie has to pretend he doesn't hear the soft sobs, or see the tears streaming from tightly-shut eyes.

Over the weeks, he plays more Tchaikovsky than he might normally. Greer is enchanted by the whole of _Swan Lake,_ and when he puts _The Nutcracker_ on for her-- it's nearing Christmas, after all-- he is rewarded with misty, wondering eyes that travel to another place. She has to stop work entirely the first time she hears the 1812 finale, eyes wide as she listens. Holst is too much; he watches her features twist when he plays _The Planets._ Slowly, he learns what she likes, and makes it a point to choose more along that trend. When the music plays, Greer's walls come down just a little. He notices that when they do talk, she is quicker to reply, easier in her manner. He even starts to see her barely-there smiles echo around the eyes.

It's bothering him now, the fact that she's kept in bronze. The more he works with her, the more he sees, the more he wonders what she could possibly have done. Her eyes are calculating only when it comes to artifact placement. She's friendly, when she's not guarding herself. She doesn't complain at the endlessness of the work. And, as Artie finds out, she is willing to risk herself for the sake of another.

It starts on a day when they're both among the shelves, doing routine checks. Artie is in the area surrounding the Dark Vault, alternating between the shelves outside and the Vault itself so he doesn't exceed safe time limits. Greer is a quarter mile away when he accidentally brushes the leather collar with his exposed wrist, and when it tells him to put it on, he can't resist its pull.

 _Sinner,_ it whispers to him, and he coughs when it tightens sharply on his neck. _You did not stop him._

“I-- I didn't know he needed to be-- he was my--” Artie feels the collar close even more.

 _Liar,_ it snarls, and he can't get enough air to scream. It wouldn't matter if he did, anyway; the Dark Vault doors closed behind him. No one will hear. Black spots are clouding his vision; he falls to his knees, gasping brokenly. _So this is how I go,_ he thinks, kicking himself mentally for not being more careful.

But he has forgotten, momentarily, about the abilities of the other person in the Warehouse. _“Artie!”_ The Vault door opens, and Greer comes through as quickly as she can, weaving through the containment circles so quickly that she almost crosses several of the cordons. She reaches to the collar with gloved hands and fights with the buckle. “Artie, hang on.” The leather is stiff and old, and the iron seems to be fused to it; it takes all her might to pry the tongue through and pull the leather off the prong. Finally, it is loose, but she's staring at it as it sits in her hands, as if spellbound. Artie sucks in fragmented breaths between choking coughs, and as soon as his thoughts clear he yanks the canister off Greer's shoulder, snatches the collar, and shuts it inside. He nearly loses his grip on the canister as it shakes because the sides of the metal are actually hot to the touch.

Greer is shivering on the concrete next to him, and they both take a minute to recover. After a silence, Artie says, “I'm gonna leave this in here until we find a box for it.”

“Aye,” Greer replies, voice thready, still breathing hard from her sprint. “I think that's fer the best.”

After they exit the vault and install themselves among less dangerous items, he asks quietly, “What did it say to you? The collar?”

She shakes her head. “No words. Only the faintest of whispers. And...” She swallows, hard, then shakes her head. “I ken now what malevolence feels like to my senses.”

\- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Artie calls Mrs. Frederic and asks for a chat. She surprises him by appearing almost immediately.

“I hope there has not been an incident with Ms. Thomson,” she says from behind him, making him jump.

“ _God_ I hate it when you _do_ _that,”_ Artie says, a hand clapped over his heart.

“You did ask to speak with me,” she replies, and he would swear there is amusement behind her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, heartbeat beginning to regulate again. “I did. I want to talk about Greer, actually-- _not_ \--” he interrupts himself, holding out a hand-- “that she did anything, because she didn't. Well, she did. It was just--”

“Get to the point, Artie,” Mrs. Frederic says, mildly acidic. “It was a very nice dinner.”

“Right,” he says uncomfortably. “I want to see her personnel file.”

The Caretaker raises an eyebrow at him. “That information is eyes-only.”

“Yeah, okay, I understand that, alright?” Artie rubs the back of his head. “Bronze Sector, big bads, bigger security risk, I know. But I don't think-- there's something _off_ about her situation.”

“What would that be?”

Encouraged by Mrs. Frederic's neutral tone, he says, “She's not, you know, evil?” At the sharp look, he forges on, “I know evil, okay? Thanks to James, I even know evil-pretending-to-be-normal. I know charming versus _too_ charming, I know what it looks like when someone is befriending you just to use you. And her-- she just--” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “She's just _sad,_ Irene.”

“And you think reading her file will do what?”

Artie blows out a breath through pursed lips. “I don't know. But I'm starting to think that she doesn't deserve to be where she is. And if I can...” He sighs again. “I don't know, I don't know what I could do.”

It's a weak argument, so when the Caretaker crosses to his computer terminal and starts typing, he's flabbergasted. “I hear that there has been the occasional error in our servers' partitions,” she says conversationally as she clicks and enters long strings of letters and digits. “For example, certain files that have been programmed to show as unavailable sometimes just... appear.” A photo of Greer pops up on the screen, along with window after window of scanned reports. “Get on that, will you?” She walks away without another word, the Umbilicus door closing behind her with a clang.

Artie, after a baffled few seconds staring at the door, settles at the computer desk and begins to read. It's a lot to get through; he starts chronologically, and his heart already hurts by the time he finishes the very first entry. Greer had been out shopping for Christmas presents for her parents when she had been bewitched by an exceptionally powerful artifact which had drawn her to follow the two agents of the time. And, Artie sees from the list of dates marking when she's been let out of the bronze, she hasn't seen a Christmas since.

Grimly, Artie works his way through the files, which are mostly incident reports. Most of them show quick thinking and exceptional care. But then there is one.. He can hardly think about the escape attempt after he reads through it. He now knows why Mrs. Frederic had been so sure she couldn't hurt him.

He also knows, now, why Greer is such a closed book. Attitudes about her, judging by the bias in the reports' writers over the years, has swung wildly from thinking she's a godsend to thinking she's the malicious criminal he himself had assumed her to be, and everything in between. He can't imagine what it must have been like to be revived, again and again, and have no idea what kind of treatment to expect. He's disgusted and angry and full of pity as he leans back in his chair, leg turning him back and forth as he thinks. Mrs. Frederic cannot be alright with this situation; why else would she have allowed him access? But for Greer to still be here, the Caretaker clearly doesn't have the pull to have her released, either.

Before now, Artie has only really thought of the Regents academically. He's never met any of them, just concerns himself with writing the reports and meeting the courier to send them along, and then he forgets about them. But now he considers his options for contact, and realizes that he has no way to call them, no address to send a letter to. _The courier it is,_ he thinks, pulling a blank sheet of paper from underneath a pile.


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast the next morning is stilted. Greer does not need extra senses to pick up on the tension radiating from Artie's body they share the table. Instead of having his nose in a book, he alternates between gazing at his plate and somewhere in the distance as they eat. Having learned, though, she waits until he has a cup or two of coffee down his gullet before she speaks. “Has something happened?” she asks, voice carefully neutral.

Artie snaps back from his thoughts with a jerk, then looks at her with a distinctly uncomfortable expression. “Ah,” he hedges, eyes shifting away and darting down, then up, then back to her again. “Nothing new.” Greer raises an eyebrow-- only a month ago she wouldn't have dared, Artie knows-- but says nothing. He sighs. “I want you to know that I-- before last night, I didn't-- Mrs. Frederic didn't tell me. About you.”

It doesn't take long for Greer to puzzle out what he means, and it is her turn to be uncomfortable. “How I ended up here, ye mean.”

“Yes,” Artie breathes out, relieved he doesn't have to spell it out.

“That's long in the past.”

Artie reads what she doesn't say: _I don't want to talk about it._ But he's never been very good at letting things go. It's what makes him such a good agent. “It was a mistake,” he says quietly. “What they did to you. People get tricked by artifacts all the time, that's almost always how I know to go get one, but I never put them in _jail_ for it, it's not their fault.”

Greer is quiet for a long moment, face back to that neutral mask, all the little nuances he's been seeing more and more of put away again. “None of them discovered this place,” she says finally. “There was a breach, they dealt with it.” Her body has gone completely still now. “It's long in the past,” she repeats.

“It doesn't have to be,” Artie says, expecting but still not ready for the shudder of her shoulders in response. “I've written to the Regents, they could--”

Greer takes her hand from where it had been resting on the table and puts it in her lap, but not quickly enough to disguise the trembling. “No,” she says firmly, almost savagely. “They could, but they willna do anything. I'm a risk. That's how it's always been.”

“But you shouldn't _be_ here--”

She stands from the chair suddenly; the force of her legs straightening shoves it back with a screech. “Drop it,” she says, voice low.

“But--” She stalks from the office on shaking legs, and Artie lets her go. He'll follow her in a few minutes-- she always logs her location, an old habit that's kept her safe-- but for now, he needs her to calm down. That thing in her brain had worked so much faster than he expected, and it isn't clear how long the effects will last.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Things are touch and go for the next few days. Greer does show up for their breakfast the next morning, to his surprise, but does not speak and barely looks his way. Wisely, Artie doesn't bring the issue up again, though he badly wants to. The idea is in his head now, and he has a drop scheduled for Friday. Greer has not asked him to withhold the letter explicitly, so he's not going to. By unspoken agreement, though, after the events in the Dark Vault, the two of them do not spread out so far again when plunging into the stacks; Greer is never farther than a few rows away, her not-ears pricked constantly for any type of variations in the Warehouse's irregular energy network.

Artie's mind still turns on the issue, though, always running in the background. He needs to build up her confidence, he decides finally. If he can do that, she might reconsider her position. So Artie goes out on an artifact retrieval, as he does several times a month, but this time, when he comes back, he pulls Greer aside in the office. “We've got a couple new agents incoming,” he replies to her confused look. “Ran into them getting Mendel's spade. They'll be here tomorrow.”

He sees her begin to tense, muscle by muscle. “I see.”

“No,” he says, pointing at her. “You're not going to do that.”

“Do what?” she asks, irritated at his perception.

He flutters hands in her general direction. _“That,”_ he says impatiently. “They've never met you. To them, you are senior. You are going to be _in charge_ of them.”

Greer blinks at him. She's never been put above anyone before; she's always been the tool, not the handler. “I don't understand.”

“Yes you do,” he says, a scowl peeking through. “They are going to answer to you. When I'm not here, you're the go-to, _you're_ going to help me train them. They can-- and will-- learn a lot from you.”

“But--” she stammers, eyebrows coming together as she tries to adjust to this strange idea. “But I've never-- That's not what I usually _do.”_ She thinks back to all the other agents she's worked with, all the fighting she's had to do to prove herself.

“Times they are a'changing,” Artie says with a little smile. “It's the nineties, kid. We're almost into the twenty-first century, here. They're not going to blink at a woman being their boss. Or they'd better not,” he adds with a growl, “or they'll be hearing it from me.”

Greer is staring at him with bewilderment, both touched and intimidated. “How-- what should I do?”

“You tell me that,” Artie says, steering her to one of the chairs. “If you were new here, how would you best learn inventory? Shelving? Safety guidelines?” He plunks her down with a hand on her shoulder, a grin shining through his facial hair, and starts pulling out maps and diagrams from the mess of his desk. “Show me what you would prioritize first.”

They spend the afternoon and much of the evening outlining a training program. The more Greer talks and notes down, the easier it is to get lost in the rhythm of it, the easier it is to think she might actually be able to pull this ruse off. She's worn many masks in her time here, after all, so when the agents arrive behind Artie the next morning, she stands with her head held high as they approach. “This is the other person you'll report to,” Artie says to them, nodding at her.

Greer steps forward after only a second's hesitation and holds out her hand. “Greer Thomson,” she says, glad to hear that her voice doesn't shake at all. “Nice to meet you.” They all shake, and the two men introduce themselves politely, though they're confused. Greer knows this is probably due to the suddenness of their reassignment, though. Mrs. Frederic is not usually one to elaborate, she's learned.

Artie gestures for her to come along as he steps onto the balcony with them and fields their questions, winking at her behind their backs as if to say, _See? None the wiser._ They take the agents on their initial tour, and Greer even interjects a few times to answer queries. After they are back in the office, the agents sent to settle into the B&B, Artie gives her a look. “You never told me I was saying your name wrong.”

Greer shrugs. “No one ever does.” But Artie does, after a few tries, and she finds herself inexplicably affected; tears threaten to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering at all what Artie meant in the first chapter of _Held In Trust_ when he said, “Do you know what she did in—“, well, here’s what she did in

“How are things progressing?” asks Mrs. Frederic on the other end of the Farnsworth.

“Oh, good,” Artie replies absently, currently digging through a pile of books for the one he wants. “The agents are coming along nicely, I know we've hooked Parson. Murphy is a little more reluctant--”

“I meant with inventory and safety checks.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ She wants to know when she can put Greer back. Artie puts on a pained look that isn't entirely made up. “We still haven't covered some of the more rural sectors, you know, the distant ones. We started with the ones holding items that J-- MacPherson mentioned that I could remember, then we did some probabilities and put the rest on a rotation--”

“How many left? How long?”

Something in her tone puts Artie on alert; he gets the distinct feeling she is not alone. “There are five areas left,” he says reluctantly. “We could _probably, maybe_ cover one a day--”

“Alright. The twenty-fourth, then,” she says, looking off to the side.

“But--”

“Thank you, Artie.” Mrs. Frederic's image winks out, and he sighs, thinking of the presents he still hasn't wrapped. Even if he gives them early, Greer will only have a day or two to enjoy them before they'll languish for who knows how long in her room.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The second time Greer saves Artie's life, it's the weekend, and they're alone in the Warehouse, working through the second-to-last section, one neither of them has done any more than pass by for years.

“Agent Murphy seems to have taken a shine to you,” Artie says conversationally as he straightens an artifact. “He can hardly take his eyes off you.”

Greer rolls her eyes behind his back, checking off another item from the list. “It's the accent he likes,” she says, “not me. If I spoke like you do, it would fade quickly enough.”

“Ha!” Artie chortles, shaking his head. “If you spoke like I do, he'd be afraid of you.”

Greer smiles where he can't see. “Perhaps that would be better. Give me lessons?”

“Really,” Artie says, turning to face her. “He's not a bad-looking guy.”

“Artie,” she says, a warning in her tone as they finish checking the aisle and begin walking to the next. “I'm no interested.”

“Oh come on,” he begins.

“ _Artie,”_ she says again as he pulls ahead of her slightly; even his short legs are longer than hers.

“Look, I'm sorry, but--”

“ _ARTIE, STOP--”_

By the time it occurs to him that she isn't talking about Agent Murphy anymore, there is fire all around him, stealing his breath. He hears a crash through the shock-- several crashes, actually-- and next thing he knows, he's on the ground, and something heavy is crushing his hips. He can't see very well; the blast has knocked his glasses away.

“Greer!” he calls, coughing. The fire is blazing strong, and his oxygen is being eaten quickly. “Where are you?” He hears the hint of grunting through the crackling of the flames, somewhere behind him. He twists his upper body as best he can, while pinned-- it's a crate on top of him, and he can only guess at its contents, and, _oh, shit, it's on fire_ \-- to try and look for her. The smoke is thicker, now, and his eyes sting as they search. _“GREER!”_ he shouts, beginning to panic. She's so much smaller than he is.

In answer, he sees her limping through the fog, blood all down one side of her face and her shirt red-stained where it's been torn at the waist. In one hand, she has a neutralizer wand; on the other side, she has a fire extinguisher tucked between her arm and abdomen, the nozzle gripped in her right hand. “Cover your face, Artie,” she wheezes, something odd in the way she's speaking, and he does, mere seconds before the white powder begins to coat him. The neutralizer she sprays into the hole the fire has eaten in the crate. Artie's imminent danger passed, she drops the neutralizer wand, listing to one side as she takes a more secure grip on the red canister and takes the nozzle in her free hand. She's badly injured, Artie can see, but she doesn't stop until all the flames are gone. When there is only smoke left, she collapses against a shelf, sliding slowly to the floor, chest hitching as she tries to breathe.

Artie finds strength enough, somehow, to get the crate off his legs and casts his eyes around for his bag; luckily, it's only a couple of feet away, and he digs out his Farnsworth and calls Mrs. Frederic.

\- - - - - - - - -

Greer wakes up in a hospital bed-- not in her room, she is dimly aware-- aching all over. She draws in a breath and winces. There is a frightful pain in her face. She feels fuzzy and detached; her eyes drift around until she spots someone standing at the side of the bed; a woman, wearing a white coat.

“There you are,” the woman says, smiling. “You had us very worried.”

Greer tries to open her mouth to speak, but it doesn't move, and oh, God, it _hurts._

“Better not to speak for now,” the woman-- doctor says. “You have four cracked ribs, a broken jaw, a hairline fracture in your ankle, and enough stitches that I lost count. You're going to be in bed for quite a while.”

Greer's eyes widen as she remembers-- Artie. _Artie_ was there with her. “Ahrtie,” she croaks through the pain, breath catching at the bite of it.

“He's fine, thanks to you. A lot of bruising, but he'll make a full recovery. Now you should rest as best you can.” The doctor fiddles with something next to the bed and Greer feels a wave of warmth spread through her body; her eyes close, too tired to stay open. She will not remember this later.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Artie hardly leaves Greer's side for the next few days, despite Dr. Calder's admonitions that he should be in bed himself. It hurts him to sit in one position for too long, even in the cushy armchair he's found. Vanessa shows him how to trigger the morphine drip, though--neither of them knows it now, but this is when Vanessa begins to think of Artie as more than just a patient, when he stubbornly insists on staying-- and a nurse is assigned to help Greer with navigating the bedpan and clothes and sponge baths. Greer spends this time in and out of real consciousness, and her memory of this time is patchy. But she is aware of enough that she feels secure; after all, Artie is with her. 

Greer is in bed for nearly a week before the pain begins to abate enough that she can spend time out from under the pain medication. One of her first clear recollections is Artie arguing with Mrs. Frederic outside the door of the med bay.

“I _do not care_ what the Regents say,” he says, tone hard. “It would be _barbaric_ to put her in bronze before her bones are healed.”

“She won't feel them while she's there, is their argument,” she replies, voice neutral despite Artie's anger.

“She will when she comes back out, and that's unreasonable,” he snarls. “She _saved_ my _life,_ Irene. After being thrown ten feet, face first into a metal shelf, after being _speared_ by a 16th-century _corseque_ , she still managed to _pull the weapon out of her gut_ and walk on a broken ankle to rescue me. If that hasn't earned her time out of bronze to heal, then I _quit._ I mean it.”

Mrs. Frederic is quiet for a long moment, and Greer can only imagine the look on her face. It doesn't surprise her that the Regents are still trying to hold their timeline for putting her back; they don't like her to get ideas. She _is_ surprised at the response, however.

“Alright,” Mrs. Frederic says finally. “I will have Dr. Calder write a report on the detrimental effects of the interruption of bone regrowth.”

“Thank you,” Artie says firmly, not sounding particularly pleased despite the words. Greer doesn't know whether to pretend she didn't hear when he re-enters the room, but she doesn't need to worry. “Ah! You're awake,” he says, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “How are you feeling?”

A new fondness for him is blooming in her chest; she covers it by raising an eyebrow at him. “How d'ye think?” she says through her teeth.

“Okay, dumb question,” he admits. He considers sitting, then gives her a curious look. “Christmas was a few days ago,” he says, eyes appraising. “You up to opening presents?”

“What?” she asks stupidly, blinking at him.

“I got you some things,” he says, fingers pinching each other in a brief show of uncertainty. “I bought you a birthday present, and then it was almost Christmas, so I just--” He shrugs. “I found a couple other things that you might like.”

Greer is struck speechless; her heart seems to be swelling and breaking and warming all at once, and the blinking becomes more rapid as she fights the tears. Artie hesitates another moment, then leaves the room for a few minutes before returning with three wrapped gifts. The time it takes gives her a chance to find words. “There's no much point in giving me anything,” she says around the wire as he sits in the chair, holding the boxes on his lap. “I'm only ever out a few weeks at a time.”

“You have at least another five before you're healed,” Artie says, handing over the first, a squashily wrapped rectangle. “And this one will help you be comfortable while you do a lot of sitting.”

She grimaces with her eyes, the idea of being stuck in a chair or a bed grating on her. Physical idleness leads to room to think leads to... well. Things she tries not to think about. She takes the gift, staring at it as she says, “I can help you do research?”

“You can, if you're laying down for most of it,” he says impatiently. “Open it.” She peels at the tape around the edges until Artie grunts. “It's made to be ripped, it's disposable.”

“Oh,” she says sheepishly, and pulls at the flaps, wincing a little at the noise as the paper tears. Inside is a cushy bathrobe; she pets the sky blue fabric, marveling at the softness. “It's lovely.” She clears her throat a little. “Thanks.”

As she opens the next two gifts under Artie's anticipatory gaze, she feels a spark of something she hasn't felt in a very long time: Family.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Bah,” Artie says, removing his fingers from the keys. “I just can't get that _right.”_ They're in the office, a couple of weeks later. Even though Artie knows he ought to be spending more time among the shelves, he doesn't like to leave Greer for too long.

They both know he's talking to himself, so he's surprised when Greer, sitting in a recliner Artie has dredged up from somewhere, books open on her lap, says through her wired jaw, “The part near the end?”

He looks at her curiously. “So you hear it too?”

She nods. “Play it again?” He obliges, and she says, “That third note from the end, the C? Take it down a half step, and add it to the chord under the last note.”

Artie raises a bushy eyebrow, but does as she suggests, the other eyebrow joining it when the phrase plays as if it was meant to be. “That's... Wait,” he says, turning in his chair to face her. “You have perfect pitch,” he says, almost accusatory.

She shrugs, looking abashed. “It's only vibrations,” she demurs.

“Perfect pitch!” he exclaims, disbelieving. “Do you know what I would _give--”_ He shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. “Perfect pitch,” he mutters again, fingers returning to the keys. “Fine,” he grumps, “what do you think of this, next?”

They pass the next hour quibbling back and forth about flats and sharps and phrasing. Greer pushes for a more fluid style to the piece, with more quarter and eighth rests, than he usually goes for, but when the first draft is finished, it sounds more soulful than anything he's written before. With a little polish, it could easily be the most emotional thing he's ever composed. “Kid,” he says with a touch of wonder, “I'm going to have to give you writing credit.”

Her smile in response is the most genuine one Artie's seen from her yet; her eyes crinkle at the corners and he even sees a hint of teeth. “Ye dinna have to. I'm only glad to have helped.”

He eyes her, appraising. “You know, the melody would translate well to a vocal line. If one were a soprano...”

“If one were,” Greer says after a few seconds, eyes far away, “one wouldna have sung in many years, and certainly not through one's teeth.”

Artie leaves it, but later, as he comes back into the office, he hears humming until it cuts off at his appearance-- a familiar tune.


End file.
